50

I watched Oprah faithfully in my teens and twenties.  I remember one episode when Aretha Franklin and Patti LaBelle joined the show to talk about aging.  One of them said turning 50 was liberating.  You had finally grown into yourself.  50 was something to celebrate, not dread.  For whatever reason, I have never forgotten that.  A few years ago, when one of my best friends turned 50, I told her she should do something epic to celebrate.  She trained for a half marathon–an epic show of strength and accomplishment. I guess I  had in my mind that maybe I’d ride my bike to the coast, but slogging through the last years have already been an epic show of strength and accomplishment.  I have asked myself at least twenty times, “how much stronger do I have to be?”  So my idea of celebration fell more in the –fabulous vacation, or hot air balloon ride, or a giant party with all my friends.  What actually transpired was all of that and more.

I’ve only been in this house for a month.  The hard wood floors need to be refinished.  There is paneling in the downstairs bathroom.  I have two rooms that I’m unsure what to do with.  There are still a few boxes unpacked and the bathroom upstairs needs a remodel to become a fully functional adult bathroom.  Not to mention that the garage has no electricity, the fence is in pieces all over the backyard, and I have been referring to the landscape as “ground zero,”  but I’m already more comfortable in this house than I was in the house I lived for fifteen years.  So it made sense to have the party here and make it a birthday/house warming event.

I woke up thinking all sorts of crazy things–is James going to want to sleep with a 50 year old woman, can I still buy t-shirts at Hot Topic, should I get a tattoo, or a convertible?  But then I met my lifelong friend to get my nails done.  It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a nail salon.  I used to go with my mom.  Her perfectly manicured nails of dusty rose still flash in my head when I think of her, but on my birthday, I found myself reflecting on my own hands.  I have a vein that seems to have become dark and prominent, and a few brown spots, but my burn scar is faded and almost invisible. In my. college year book, there is a photo of just my hand as I lined up for a shot at a pool table.  The photo is both artsy and sexy.  My hands don’t seem young anymore, but my fingers are still long and slim.  I wear jewelry now–mom’s wedding ring, a cancer survivor ring, a tiny turquoise ring that my dad gave me as a child, and a birthstone ring with jewels for my kids and my parents.  Looking at the rings anchored me and I relaxed into the experience of being pampered and enjoying my birthday.

The party was so fun.  Balloons and streamers and food and drinks.  But most of all–my friends.  All the people who are consistently in my life on a day to day basis filled my house from the front porch to the kitchen.  My friends have pulled together for me so many times over the years, but this time there was no trauma or tragedy, just joy. It’s exactly what I wanted–a day with people I love.  I wasn’t expecting any gifts, but was honored and touched at all that I received.  My workmates came together and gave me a hot air balloon ride.  It’s on my bucket list.  I had offers when I went through cancer treatment, but I didn’t want to go then.  I felt like the balloon ride would be something to look forward to when I was fully recovered.  I guess that’s now, right?  I can’t wait to be high in the sky with endless vistas before me.  It’s a great metaphor for how it feels to turn fifty.

When I finally went to bed, I realized that I was truly happy.  I’ve made it through challenges and still believe in love and grace.  I have amazing friends and a beautiful family and I’m lucky.  I could’t blow out 50 candles in one breath, but it doesn’t matter because all my wishes have come true already.